Unremarked

When she was born
Times were changing.
There were Sundays at the beach-
Scooped balls of melon, hard boiled eggs,
Cartwheels in the sand.

What I'd give
To laugh like I did,
Wake up happy,
Twinkle in eye and heart,
With you, with you.

She must have been happy as a child.
She remembers laughing wildly.
She remembers that people always laughed with her.

Yoked together by time,
What you like to have happened and your memory of what did happen are no longer separable.

I would take that look on your face
And carry it with me
For years after.
I was so brave, unafraid, perhaps, for
I cried for days after.

She grew a personality as others earned inches.
She loathed running, adapted to independence
Wore no pink, hated garnet.
And she learnt to be resentful of injustice.

Does the ascending number in age nullify the intensity of plenary happiness?
Or perhaps, the parameters change-
Bliss becomes increasingly attached to strings of buts and only ifs;
Forget the unfledged Bambi exuberance.

Happy moments:
When 5 - leading the pack to steal freshly ripened chillies off the neighbour's plants
When 10 - marching with the pack, frangipanni in hair, to archery lessons in Club Med
When 15 - sushi lunches and cab rides with the best friend
When 18 - Christmas eve party. With boyfriend, good friends, cigarettes and beer.
When 24 - discovering Paddington market, empty beaches, cookie recipes.

Time intermittently erases only the unsavoury.
And in effect plays up what is left.

When she was born things changed.
There were no more drawings on the wall.

Posted by e at January 19, 2004 09:37 PM